


Regard

by BazinMousqueton



Series: The Body and the Battle [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porthos Is Beautiful, Spoilers through to 1x06, Voyeurism, imaginary rimming, imaginary threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Athos kisses Porthos, Porthos and Aramis make use of Treville's desk, and Athos watches. And blushes. And fantasises. And masturbates.</p><p>Or: Athos can't resist Porthos, Porthos forces himself to resist Athos, and Athos discovers the pleasures of voyeurism.</p><p>The fics in this series are chronological but standalone -- there's no need to read the earlier ones to enjoy this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regard

**Author's Note:**

> Set during and after 1x06 (The Exiles).

Athos and Porthos searched the clearing. They had been ambushed, yet there was no sign their attackers had fired a single real shot. Athos knew he should be worried. With Marie de Medici back in Paris their lives would, inevitably, get complicated.

Still, he felt calm. Grounded.

He took a deep breath of forest-scented air and crouched to pick up a handful of earth. He rubbed it between gloved fingers, enjoying its coolness. Porthos walked towards him, twigs snapping underfoot, his gait relaxed. Porthos was so at home in the city that Athos sometimes forgot he also flourished outside its walls.

But, this was Porthos. Porthos was at home anywhere. Or, perhaps, anywhere Porthos was, was home.

"There's something very wrong here," Porthos said.

"Vincent's involved," Athos said.

"I enjoyed watching you threaten him earlier. How did it go? 'It will be our duty to kill you...'"

"'...and, incidentally, our pleasure.'" Athos kept his delivery poker-faced. 

Porthos chuckled, his dimples showing, and clapped Athos on the back. Athos couldn't help it: he laughed too. Porthos stared. 

"Not sure I've seen you laugh before," he said.

"I have been known to, on occasion."

"What's the occasion?"

Athos wasn't sure. Maybe it was being out of the city. Maybe a reaction to the brutality of the hunt: grasping life after snuffing it out. Maybe the reappearance of Marie de Medici and her reminder of the damage family could inflict; the contrast between the spiked chains binding Marie and Louis -- and Athos and Anne -- and the precious bond between Athos and his Musketeer brothers.

Or maybe it was Porthos himself: laidback, proficient and -- Athos could convince others he didn't notice, but he couldn't fool himself -- remarkably handsome. Athos breathed in and, before he could stop to think, pulled Porthos into a kiss. Porthos froze for a split second and then kissed back--

\--and Athos's knees nearly gave way. His heart raced. His stomach turned over, deliciously. Porthos ran gauntleted hands up Athos's neck and into his hair, setting Athos's scalp tingling. Porthos's tongue teased gently into Athos's mouth. Porthos kissed as if there was nothing else in the world but the kiss.

Anne had kissed like that, for one short summer...

Porthos pulled away, breathing heavily. 

"Did I lose you?" he asked.

Athos realised his mind had drifted. He couldn't explain; he hadn't told Porthos or Aramis about his wife; hoped he never had to. It was bad enough d'Artagnan knew. 

He shook his head and focused on Porthos. Pressed kisses along Porthos's jaw, enjoying the abrasive scrape of their beards. Tipped his head up to kiss Porthos's lips -- and that was new, he had never kissed someone taller than himself -- and concentrated. Porthos's lips were soft, and skilled. He tasted of the apple he had liberated from the King's hunt banquet. His tongue caressed Athos, drew a quiet moan from him. Athos, light-headed, his blood distinctly somewhere other than his brain, pushed against Porthos, grinding his hard cock into Porthos's thigh.

"Easy," Porthos said, curving a hand over Athos's hips and softening the grind into a teasing brush. He locked gazes with Athos. "Your eyes look green out here in the forest."

"They _are_ green," Athos said, breathier than he would have liked, the barest approximation of his normal deadpan. 

"They usually look blue."

"The Musketeer cloak does it."

"Yeah," Porthos said, leaning in to glide his tongue around the whorls of Athos's ear, before continuing in a whisper, "the Musketeer cloak does it for me every time."

Athos's cock twitched and throbbed. Porthos dragged gentle teeth across his lobe before stepping away. 

"We should report back to Captain Treville," he said.

Athos stared at him. He wanted to stop? Now?

"Did you learn that from Aramis?" Athos asked. Hurt bled into his voice. "How to leave your conquests wanting more?"

"That's not it," Porthos said. His voice rumbled, deeper than usual. He gripped Athos's biceps and looked into his eyes again. "It's just... I want to savour our first time. Not take you fast and hard against a tree. And if I kiss you any longer I won't be able to hold back."

Athos's knees trembled again. He wanted nothing more than for Porthos to fuck him against a tree. _And_ nothing more than for Porthos to take him apart slowly, in bed. His cheeks burnt; he knew Porthos would see the flush, see his lust written across his face. He clenched his jaw in an effort to control himself.

"Very well," he said, turning away, his voice as dry as he could make it. "We will return to this later."

# # #

Several days later, Athos sat under the window in the garrison armoury, his pistol in his lap and a bowl of boiling water beside him. They had foiled a coup, saved the life of the true King and the reign of the existing King, and proved, yet again, that together they were invincible.

He and Porthos had been kept too busy to fuck.

Treville's office next door was empty; the Captain was still at the Louvre Palace. Athos removed the lock from his pistol, placing the screws in a rag on the floor so he didn't lose them. Dust motes danced in the shaft of late evening sun slanting across the room. Metal clashed on metal in the courtyard outside. Athos dampened a cleaning rag with sweet oil and ran it down the barrel. 

The last pair of Musketeers stopped sparring outside, laughing together as they sheathed their weapons and caught their breath. Athos heard their voices, but not their words, strolling away from the garrison. They left behind a stillness in which Athos could hear the nicker of horses in the stables, a carriage speeding down Rue du Vieux-Colombier and, way in the distance, a bell ringing nine.

His friends would not find him here. They would search the taverns in vain. Athos hadn't wanted to loose himself in drink, not tonight. 

Athos wiped down his pistol's barrel with a dry cloth, losing himself instead in the work and the solitude. He began to see why Aramis so often turned weapons maintenance into a pastime. The task provided a focus -- he wiped down the inside of the lock and reached for his bag of brick dust -- and time for contemplation. 

He mixed brick dust with sweet oil, soaked it up with a piece of tow, and rubbed at a patch of corrosion. The smell grounded him in the here and now: his life as a Musketeer; his duties; his brothers. Porthos in the wood outside Paris. Aramis believing he needed to rescue Agnes and baby Henri on his own.

Agnes telling Aramis the Musketeers were his family.

Athos had wanted Porthos in the forest, but he hadn't realised the extent of it. He _needed_ Porthos, and Aramis; needed everything they would offer in the name of brotherhood and love. Needed -- if they would let him -- to participate fully in their relationship, even in those areas that had, thus far, remained implicit.

 _Especially_ those areas.

Anne had successfully hidden from him for five years; he had had no inkling she might still be alive. She clearly had the resources and the will to disappear. Now she had burnt down his house -- _their_ house -- she would undoubtedly vanish again, become the ghost d'Artagnan had thought her. 

He couldn't forget her; he'd always regret her; but surely he could begin to move on?

Familiar booted footsteps climbed the staircase outside. Two pairs of feet: one heavy stride, one light prowl. He should have known they would track him down. He laid his pistol aside.

Treville's door opened. Athos heard his name. He half rose, then stilled when he realised Aramis was talking _about_ him, not calling him.

"Athos is in a good mood this week," Aramis said. "Despite my attempt to get us all killed."

"Yeah," Porthos said. "He made jokes. And..."

Athos heard the door close and the key turn in the lock. 

"And?" Aramis said.

"He kissed me."

Athos's chest tightened. He should make his presence known, stop the conversation. It was the only honourable course of action. 

He didn't.

He wanted to hear what Porthos would say.

He hated himself for that, but he pushed the feeling down. He had had years of practice in repressing self-loathing. His friends walked past the open doorway, unbuckling their weapons belts and not looking his way. He flattened himself against the wall. 

"And..." Aramis prompted. 

Athos leant forward until he could just see. Aramis and Porthos stood face to face in front of Treville's desk, each undoing the other's buttons. Porthos smiled, the full-on beam that lit up his face.

"God, Aramis, it was delicious. The man's talented."

Aramis slipped Porthos's doublet off his shoulders. "Did you ever doubt it?"

"I doubted I'd ever find out." Porthos pushed Aramis's coat to the floor.

Aramis sighed. "The most kissable lips in the regiment, and the least available." He trailed kisses down Porthos's neck. "I've dreamt of running my fingers through that hair."

"And when you say dreamt," Porthos unlaced Aramis's shirt and drew it over his head, "you mean wanked to."

Aramis laughed. He didn't disagree. Athos's face burned. His cock--

Well. 

Suffice to say not all his blood had rushed to his cheeks.

Athos's pulse thumped. Porthos pulled off his own shirt and leaned towards Aramis. Athos stared, mouth dry. He shouldn't be watching this. 

Porthos and Aramis kissed. It was the most beautiful thing Athos had ever seen. Both men had so much power, and so much control. Athos stepped away from the wall, not caring that he would be in view if his friends looked up. They weren't going to look up. Their intensity was breathtaking. Aramis's fingertips stroked Porthos's back. Porthos's hands tangled in Aramis's hair. Both men had their eyes closed. One of them moaned into the kiss -- Aramis, Athos thought. Porthos bit Aramis's lip and pushed his thigh between Aramis's legs. Aramis moved his hands to Porthos's breeches buttons.

Athos _really_ shouldn't be watching this. His cock strained against his own breeches. 

Aramis pulled out of the kiss. Athos backed into the wall again, tilting his head forward to maintain his view. Porthos whispered something into Aramis's ear. Whatever it was provoked Aramis into a whimper. He hastily stripped Porthos, then himself, and turned to face Treville's desk.

"Gun oil?" he asked, over his shoulder.

"I'll get some from the armoury," Porthos said. 

_Fuck!_

Athos stopped breathing. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a place to hide. He broke into a cold sweat. 

"No need," Aramis said. "There, on my bandolier."

Athos sagged, his hands on his thighs and his head hanging. The smell of oil drifted through from next door, carried by an explosion of Porthos's laughter and a groan from Aramis. Athos couldn't watch. He concentrated on bringing his breathing under control. His legs shook.

When he looked again, Aramis was bent over Treville's desk, braced on his forearms, his legs spread wide. Porthos stood between Aramis's legs, his cock thrusting into Aramis. Athos watched a bead of sweat trickle down Porthos's back, rolling over planes of taut muscle and onto the curve of Porthos's buttocks. Athos's hands itched to squeeze Porthos's ass. Porthos threw his head back, panting. Aramis whimpered instructions Athos couldn't quite hear. Porthos sped up. The sound of skin slapping against skin travelled straight to Athos's cock, bringing it back to full hardness.

Athos imagined taking off his clothes, striding through to the office and joining them. He would kiss the back of Porthos's neck... no, bite it. Then skim teeth and tongue down his friend's back until he got to that glorious ass. That, he would definitely bite. It was made to be bitten. He would get down on his knees, pull Porthos's buttocks apart, force his tongue between them, and worship...

Aramis arched his back, keening. Porthos reached for Aramis's cock. He'd barely closed his hand around it when Aramis came, going limp in Porthos's arms. Porthos supported Aramis and thrust frantically, chanting Aramis's name. 

Athos palmed his cock through his breeches, unable to help himself yet equally unable to muster the courage to enter Treville's office.

Porthos stilled, gasping his appreciation, and falling forward onto the desk, Aramis pinned underneath him. Aramis squirmed and turned his head. They traded sloppy, sated kisses.

Athos felt shame flooding through him. He had no business watching this. He crushed his back into the wall, hoping to remain invisible.

"Athos," Aramis said, his voice full of contentment.

Athos froze. Had they known he was there all along? 

Had they been _performing_ for him?

He gulped. 

Porthos chuckled. "Were you thinking of _Athos_ while I was fucking you?" he asked Aramis, mock-indignant.

"Porthos, please," Aramis said. "Of course I was. Are you telling me you weren't thinking of Athos while you fucked me?"

Porthos rumbled his beautiful laugh. "Of course I was." Footsteps padded around the office. "Let's have another go at finding him. Then maybe we won't have to make do with imaginary Athos in bed tonight."

"There must be some taverns we haven't tried," Aramis said. It sounded as if he was wriggling back into his clothes. 

The key turned in the lock. Athos caught a glimpse of the two men as they left, Aramis's arm slung casually across Porthos's shoulders; Aramis's hair a tousled mess. The door closed behind them.

Athos slid slowly to the floor. He raced to unbutton himself and take his cock in hand. He slicked himself with sweet oil, the scent bringing with it a picture of Porthos and Aramis, moving together. He closed his eyes to savour the image, and stroked himself fast. _Fast and hard_ , he thought, remembering Porthos all but growling the words in the forest. 

He came, gasping.

It had nothing to do with duty, and everything to do with pleasure.


End file.
